Shopaholic Takes Manhattan (13 page)

A cold dismay creeps over me. OK, maybe I did once kind of pretend I had a stalker. Which I shouldn’t have done. But I mean, just because you invent one tiny stalker—that doesn’t make you a complete nutcase, does it?

“And the trouble is, we’ve never actually . . . well,
seen
him with you, have we, love?” Mum’s continuing, as she stuffs the cushion into its transparent bag. “Not in the flesh. And then there was that piece in the paper saying he was single . . .”

“He didn’t say single!” My voice is shrill with frustration. “He said no comment! Mum, have Janice and Martin told you they don’t believe me?”

“No!” Mum lifts her chin defiantly. “They wouldn’t dare say a thing like that to me.”

“But you know that’s what they’re saying behind our backs.”

We stare at each other, and suddenly I see the strain in Mum’s face, hidden behind her bright facade. She must have been
so
hoping we’d pull up together in Luke’s flash car, I suddenly realize. She must have been so wanting to prove Janice wrong. And instead, here I am, on my own again . . .

“He’ll be here,” I say, almost to reassure myself. “He’ll be here any minute.”

“Of course he will!” exclaims Mum brightly. “And as soon as he turns up—well, then everyone will have to eat their words, won’t they?”

The doorbell rings and we both stiffen, staring at each other.

“I’ll get that, shall I?” I say, trying to sound casual.

“Why don’t you?” agrees Mum, and I can see a tiny shine of hope in her eyes.

Trying not to run, I hurry down the stairs and, with a light heart, fling the front door open. And it’s . . . not Luke.

It’s a man laden with flowers. Baskets of flowers, a bouquet of flowers, and several flat boxes at his feet.

“Wedding flowers,” he says. “Where do you want them?”

“Oh,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment. “Actually, you’ve got the wrong house, I’m afraid. They need to go next door. Number 41.”

“Really?” The man frowns. “Let me just look at my list . . . Hold that, would you?”

He thrusts the bridal bouquet at me and starts rooting around his pocket.

“Honestly,” I say, “they need to go next door. Look, I’ll just get my—”

I turn round, holding Lucy’s bouquet with both hands, because it’s quite heavy. And to my horror, Angela Harrison is just arriving at the foot of the stairs. She stares at me, and for a moment I almost think she’s going to kill me.

“What are you doing?” she snaps. “Give me that!” She wrenches the bouquet out of my hands and brings her face so close to mine I can smell the gin on her breath. “Listen, young lady,” she hisses. “I’m not fooled by the smiles. I know what you’re up to. And you can just forget it, all right? I’m not having my daughter’s wedding wrecked by some deranged little psychopath.”

“I’m not deranged!” I exclaim furiously. “And I’m not going to wreck anything! I don’t fancy Tom! I’ve got a boyfriend!”

“Oh yes,” she says, folding her arms. “The famous boyfriend. Is he here yet?”

“No, he isn’t,” I say, and flinch at the expression on her face. “But he . . . he just called.”

“He just called,” echoes Angela with a little sneer. “To say he can’t make it?”

Why
won’t these people believe that Luke’s coming?

“Actually . . . he’s half an hour away,” I hear myself saying defiantly.

“Good!” says Angela Harrison, and gives me a nasty smile. “Well—we’ll see him very soon, then, won’t we?”

Oh shit.

By twelve o’clock, Luke still hasn’t arrived, and I’m beside myself. This is a complete nightmare. Where
is
he? I loiter outside the church until the very last minute, desperately dialing his number, hoping against hope I’m suddenly going to see him running up the road. But the bridesmaids have arrived, and another Rolls-Royce has just pulled up, and he’s still not here. As I see the car door open and a glimpse of wedding dress, I hastily retreat into the church before anyone can think I’m waiting outside to disrupt the bridal procession.

As I creep in, trying not to disturb the organ music, Angela Harrison darts me an evil look, and there’s a rippling and whispering from Lucy’s side of the church. I sit down near the back, trying to keep composed and tranquil—but I’m well aware that all Lucy’s friends are shooting surreptitious glances at me. What the hell has she been telling everyone?

For a second I feel like getting up and walking out. I never wanted to come to this stupid wedding anyway. I only said yes because I didn’t want to offend Janice and Martin. But it’s too late, the bridal march is starting, and Lucy’s walking in. And I have to hand it to her, she’s wearing the most drop-dead gorgeous dress I’ve ever seen. I stare wistfully after it, trying not to imagine what I would look like in a dress like that.

The music stops and the vicar starts talking. I’m aware that people on Lucy’s side of the church are still darting me little looks—but I adjust my hat and lift my chin and ignore them.

“. . . to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony,” intones the vicar, “which is an honorable estate . . .”

The bridesmaids have got really nice shoes, I notice. I wonder where they’re from?

Shame about the dresses, though.

“. . . reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God . . .”

He pauses to look around the congregation, just as I hear a little trilling sound coming from my bag.

Shit. It’s my phone.

I pull at the zip—but it’s stuck. I don’t believe this. You buy an expensive bag, and the bloody zip sticks.

There’s another, louder trill. At the front of the church, Angela Harrison turns round in her pew and gives me the evil eye.

“Sorry,” I mouth. “I’m just trying to get it . . .”

As it trills for a third time, the vicar stops talking. And oh God, now Tom and Lucy are turning round, too.

“I’m sorry,” I gulp, giving another frantic tug at the zip. “I’ll just . . . try to . . .”

Face burning, I stand up, squeeze my way past the row of people, and hurry out of the church. As the door clangs shut behind me I wrench so hard at the zip that I pull the stitching undone. I scrabble inside for the phone, and jab at the green button.

“Hello?” I say breathlessly into the mouthpiece. “Luke?”

“Good morning!” says a cheery voice. “Would you be interested in adding a hundred minutes to your monthly plan?”

After carefully turning off my phone I creep back into the church, where the rest of the service goes by in a blur. When it’s all over, Lucy and Tom process out, studiously ignoring me as they do so—and everyone gathers around them in the graveyard to throw confetti and take photos. I slip away without anyone noticing, and hurry feverishly up the road to the Websters’ house. Because Luke must be there by now. He
must
. He must have arrived late, and decided not to come to the church, but go straight to the reception. It’s obvious, when you think about it. It’s what any sensible person would do.

I hurry through the Websters’ house, which is full of caterers and waitresses—and head straight for the marquee. There’s already a joyful smile on my face at the thought of seeing him, and telling him about that awful moment in the church, and seeing his face crease up in laughter—

But the marquee’s empty. Completely empty.

I stand there, bewildered, for a few moments—then quickly head out again and hurry toward my parents’ house. Because maybe Luke went there, instead, it suddenly occurs to me. Maybe he got the time wrong, or maybe he had to get changed into his wedding outfit. Or maybe—

But he’s not there either. Not in the kitchen, not upstairs. And when I dial his mobile number, it clicks straight onto messages.

Slowly, I walk into my bedroom and sink down onto the bed, trying not to let myself think all the bad thoughts which are creeping into my mind.

He’s coming, I tell myself again and again. He’s just . . . on his way.

Through the window I can see Tom and Lucy and all the guests starting to arrive in next door’s garden. There are lots of hats and morning suits, and waitresses handing round champagne. In fact, it all looks rather jolly. And I know I should be down there with them, but I just can’t face it. Not without Luke, not all on my own.

But after sitting there for a while, it occurs to me that by staying up here, I’ll just be fueling the intrigue. They’ll all think I can’t face the happy couple and that I’m off slitting my wrists somewhere. It’ll confirm all their suspicions forever. I
have
to go and show my face, even if just for half an hour.

I force myself to stand up, take a deep breath, and put some fresh lipstick on. Then I walk out of the house and round to the Websters’. I slip inconspicuously into the marquee through a side flap and stand watching for a moment. There are people milling about everywhere, and the hubbub is huge, and no one even notices me. Near the entrance, there’s a formal lineup with Tom and Lucy and their parents, but no way am I going near that. So instead I sidle off to an empty table and sit down, and after a bit a waitress comes and gives me a glass of champagne.

For a while I just sit there, sipping my drink and watching people and feeling myself start to relax. But then there’s a rustling sound in front of me. I look up—and my heart sinks. Lucy is standing right in front of me in her beautiful wedding dress, flanked by a large bridesmaid in a really unflattering shade of green. (Which I think says quite a lot about Lucy.)

“Hello, Rebecca,” says Lucy pleasantly—and I can just tell, she’s congratulating herself on being so polite to the loony girl who nearly wrecked her wedding.

“Hi,” I say. “Listen, I’m really sorry about the service. I honestly didn’t mean to . . .”

“That doesn’t matter,” says Lucy, and gives me a tight smile. “After all, Tom and I are married. That’s the main thing.” And she gives her wedding-ringed hand a satisfied glance.

“Absolutely!” I say. “Congratulations. Are you going on—”

“We were just wondering,” interrupts Lucy pleasantly. “Is Luke here yet?”

My heart sinks.

“Oh,” I say, playing for time. “Well . . .”

“It’s only that Mummy said you told her he was half an hour away. But no sign of him! Which seems a bit strange, don’t you think?” She raises her eyebrows innocently, and her bridesmaid gives a half-snort of laughter. I glance over Lucy’s shoulder and see Angela Harrison standing with Tom, a few yards away, watching with gimlet, triumphant eyes. God, they’re enjoying this, aren’t they?

“After all, that was, oh, a good two hours ago now,” Lucy’s saying. “At least! So if he
isn’t
here, it does seem a teeny bit peculiar.” She gives me a mock-concerned look. “Or maybe he’s had an accident? Maybe he’s got held up in . . . Zurich, was it?”

I stare at her smug, mocking face, and something violent rushes to my head.

“He’s here,” I say before I can stop myself.

There’s a stunned silence. Lucy and her bridesmaid glance at each other, while I take a deep gulp of champagne.

“He’s
here
?” says Lucy at last. “You mean, here at the wedding?”

“Absolutely!” I say. “He’s . . . he’s been here a while, actually.”

“But where? Where is he?”

“Well . . . he was here just a few moments ago . . .” I gesture to the chair next to me. “Didn’t you see him?”

“No!” says Lucy, with wide eyes. “Where is he now?” And she starts to look around the marquee.

“Just there,” I say, pointing vaguely through the crowd. “He’s wearing a morning coat . . .”

“And? What else?”

“And he’s . . . he’s holding a glass of champagne . . .”

Thank
God
all men look alike at weddings.

“Which one!” says Lucy impatiently.

“The dark one,” I say, and take another gulp of champagne. “Look, he’s waving at me.” I lift my hand and give a little wave. “Hi, Luke!”

“Where?”
exclaims Lucy, peering into the crowd. “Kate, can you see him?”

“No!” says the bridesmaid hopelessly. “What does he look like?”

“He’s . . . actually, he’s just disappeared,” I say. “He must be getting me a drink or something.”

Lucy turns to me again.

“So—how come he wasn’t at the service?”

“He didn’t want to interrupt,” I say after a pause, and force myself to smile naturally. “Well—I won’t keep you. You must want to mingle with your guests!”

“Yes,” says Lucy after a pause. “Yes, I will.”

Giving me another suspicious look, she rustles off toward her mother, and they all start hobnobbing in a little group, shooting glances at me every so often. Then one of the bridesmaids rushes off to another group of guests, and they all start giving me glances, too. And then one runs off to
another
group. It’s like seeing a bushfire begin.

A few moments later, Janice comes up, all flushed and teary looking, with a flowery hat perched lopsidedly on her head.

“Becky!” she says. “Becky, we’ve just heard that Luke’s here!”

And my heart plummets. Putting down the bride from hell was one thing. But I can’t bring myself to lie to Janice. I just can’t do it. So I quickly take a gulp of champagne, and wave my glass at her in a vague manner that could mean anything.

“Oh, Becky . . .” Janice clasps her hands. “Becky, I feel absolutely . . . Have your parents met him yet? I know your mother will be over the moon!”

Oh fuck.

Suddenly I feel a bit sick. My parents. I didn’t think of that.

“Janice, I’ve just got to go and . . . and powder my nose,” I say, and get hastily to my feet. “See you later.”

“And Luke!” she says.

“And Luke, of course!” I say, and give a shrill little laugh.

I hurry to the portaloos without meeting anyone’s eye, lock myself in a cubicle, and sit, swigging the last warm dregs of my champagne. OK, let’s not panic about this. Let’s just . . . think clearly, and go over my options.

Option One: Tell everybody that Luke isn’t really here, I made a mistake.

Not unless I want to be stoned to death with champagne glasses and never show my face in Oxshott again.